Of comfort and false hopes
by ShadowKissedAnna
Summary: "Hush, Angleterre... Everything… is alright. Just breathe. Focus on me." HetaOni FrUK oneshot from England's POV. Inspired by the *UsUk* Fanart with England going blind. America in the beginning but not UsUk in any way, though. Just an idea I had stuck in my head for a while now. Comfort and familiarity and love and all that jazz.


**Author's note:** This story was inspired by several artworks of Hetaoni I've seen on the internet, and more specifically by the scene where Alfred discovers that Arthur is blind. I suppose, there have to be many USUK fanfics out there, but, meh.

FruUK everywhere!

Please note that I've never had any association with hetaoni. I'm not even sure I completely get what exactly it is.

So, on with the story…

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Arthur swallowed, trying his hardest not to think. Because, if he allowed himself to do so, his brain would selfishly demand to suck in every detail, each and every one of the terrible things that had transpired in the mansion in such a short period of time. And it had seemed like an eternity to them. Time didn't seem to matter in here.

"I am sorry, America." He paused, his hearing focused on every little sound, his world utter blackness. "I can no longer see."

America laughed. "Good one, dude!" Something collided with England's arm for a moment, where he guessed America had slapped him teasingly albeit a little too forcefully for his liking. He could see nothing but black and it took more effort to remain upright on his own two feet than it normally would. He stumbled, took a couple of steps back, and managed to remain standing just as he was sure he would be acquainted to the floor. The obnoxious –if not just a little crazed- laughter stopped. "You've gotta be joking, right?"

Arthur shook his head, not even bothering to try to locate Alfred's general direction.

"Yo, dude. That's so uncool!" the childish protest made something inside England shatter: was this last thread to sanity?

"Do you think it's easy for me? Or do you think I enjoy this? Why would you even care, anyway, you bloody wanker?..." He was pretty sure the words kept sprinting past his lips, harsh and filled with bitterness. England's brain didn't ultimately register them and neither was he sure he wanted to. He couldn't have stopped the flow. His head was spinning and his ears were buzzing and his mind was a blur. He didn't even care how many other might have or might have not been in the room.

Arthur didn't realize it in the beginning, but somewhere through his outburst a pair of arms had encircled him and he found himself held tight against someone's chest. He struggled, but the hold that person had on him wouldn't loosen. _Couldn't have been America_, he thought. This person wasn't as tall or as muscled, but, on the contrary, was about his height, with shoulders just a tad wider than his own.

"Hush, _Angleterre_," a whisper, so very close to his ear, warm breath tickling his neck. Subconsciously, his hands found the soft fabric of the caplet he knew was there and fisted it, pretty sure it would make the fabric wrinkle. He held tight. "It's alright. Everything… is alright. Just breathe. Focus on me." The voice was strangled, the words forced and England knew they were just as false. Nothing was _alright, _he wanted to snarl to the other. Warm hands splayed on his back, rubbing soothing circles over the layers of his clothing.

Though he instinctively wanted to doubt anything and everything the frog said, he unconsciously found himself complying. His lungs greedily sucked in shuddering breaths, the panicked fog in his mind starting to dissolve and instead got replaced by a different one. Because with each breath he drew in came the distant, familiar scent of a cologne, along with a smell that had nothing to do with eau de toilette fragrances, one that - as reluctant as he was to admit it and maybe even a little embarrassed- had accompanied him to not so few nights filled with tears and loneliness and _cold_ while he was younger. Combined, the smell could only be identified as _France_ himself, and England didn't have the energy to argue with himself about why he was so relieved.

For that smell belonged to the person that had always been there to pick up the pieces his brothers left in their wake. For he had been there when England had needed him, had taken all the shouting and the anger that was meant for another, had held him and wiped his tears. Their relationship had always been a perplexed one. They were perfect enemies, polar opposites, rivals since forever –so long that they probably couldn't remember why anymore if they tried- and still, they knew each other so well, knew each other's joy and weakness better than their own. For even through their darkest of times, they had always been right _there_. Opposite or next to each other, it didn't matter.

And that voice, that sinfully erotic and always husky voice that whispered in his ears in a language he had always pretended to dread… It calmed his racing heart that was now trying to accompany the other in a peculiar symphony and he soon found himself slugging against that chest, a trembling he hadn't even been aware of coming to a halt.

And so he held on. Held on as if afraid that is he let go, that peace would disappear and then, without any doubt, he would be lost, too. He wasn't doing it because he cared for the Frenchman, no. He was doing it for his own sanity, he told himself. Yeah, that was it.

But little did all of that matter as soft lips brushed against his jaw, his cheek and finally his lips. And the kiss was brief, and it tasted bitter, and it was _theirs_.

And Arthur, even though previously he had been unable to control his heightened senses due to his lack of seeing, now found himself being attacked by Francis in any way possible. He knew the smell in his nose, knew the sound of his voice in his ears, knew the feel of those wavy golden locks as the tips brushed his face and that dreadful beard against his neck and knew the texture of the expensive fabric the man's uniform was crafted of. But most of all, he knew the warmth that was pressed so closely to his inside-out freezing body.

And for once, in those arms he felt safe, and thought that he might as well allow himself the deception that, maybe, just _maybe_, it _was_ going to be alright.

**End note**: I'm not exactly fond of vulnerably/sappy/crying England, but I couldn't help how this turned out and, I guess, since this is HetaOni, anything is possible…

Review and let me know what you think?


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